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ISBN 978-0-307-71841-9
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First Edition
For the first few months of winter, this lake is an expanse of fro-
zen nothingness. Then, seemingly overnight, an enormous palace
of ice appears, blocks melded together with a mortar of frozen
at. But it had worked, in its way. Sure, she dated guys who were
completely unaware of her intellect and she hadn’t been able to
settle down, but that happens to a lot of us. She had a life she
could handle and at least pretend to be happy.
But Tobin had changed all that. Around him she dropped her
sardonic edge and became close to meek. It didn’t seem a change
for the better. I didn’t expect it was going to end well—I couldn’t
see Tobin settling down here, or whisking Jessamyn off to the
bosom of his family, wherever they might be.
Tobin would periodically disappear for a week or two—no one
knew where—and while he was gone Jessamyn would show glim-
mers of her old self. But once he came back she’d take right back
up with him again as if he’d never left, an Adirondack version of
a Stepford wife.
And the face beneath the ice was his.
The ice harvesters had begun to talk in low tones. I heard Tobin’s
name, so they’d recognized him too. Tobin had spent a lot of time
in the Saranac Lake bars, which were in general grittier than
the ones in Lake Placid, and without the cluster of shiny-faced
tourists trying a little too hard to have a good time.
Someone appeared from the Lakeview Deli across the street,
carrying a cardboard carton of steaming drinks. One of the men
handed me a cup. It was cocoa, hot and sweet, not the black coffee
the guys almost certainly were drinking. This was their conces-
sion to my being a woman, one who had just seen a dead man,
someone she knew, under the ice. Fine by me, because in all the
ways that mattered, the guys treated me as an equal. I’d covered
their softball games and dart tournaments and ice-fishing con-
tests, taken their photos and spelled their names right, so to them
I was okay. And maybe cocoa was just what I needed now.
I took another sip and walked over to the guys. I nodded at
them. They nodded back.
“It’s Tobin, right? Tobin Winslow?” I said.
They nodded again.
“How . . .” I began.
They shrugged in unison. “Takes a while for that much ice to
form,” said one.
over, looked down at the ice, retreated to talk it over. Finally Matt
came and asked me if I would take photos of the body before they
started trying to remove it.
When I’d been the sports editor here, I’d covered everything
from kayaking to boxing to luge to snowshoe races. But I’d never
photographed anything under ice, and it was tricky with the sun
reflecting off the surface. I concentrated on exposure and tried
not to think about this being the body of a man I’d known.
After I’d taken multiples of every shot I could think of, I nod-
ded at Matt. The men moved in with saws and began to cut the
ice around the body. I kept shooting. It was something to do, and I
needed to do something. Someone brought me another steaming
cup from the deli, and I gulped it down. This time it was coffee. I
kept clicking.
It seemed to take a very long time to free the block of ice,
lever it out, and wrestle thick flat canvas bands under it to slide
it toward shore. By now a crowd had gathered at the edge of the
lake. I kept pressing the shutter button as the body slid along in its
ice coffin. I saw it but didn’t see it. I let the camera see it for me.
If I had simply heard that Tobin had died in a car crash down-
state somewhere, I don’t think I would have mourned him. But
that dark shape in the chunk of ice sliding past hit me in a way I
wouldn’t have expected. Jessamyn had cared for Tobin, and some-
where were friends he’d grown up with, gone to school with,
shared his rich-boy escapades with. Somewhere there was a fam-
ily who would mourn his death and the extensions of him that
would never exist: wife, children, grandchildren. And no mother
is ever ready for a phone call telling her that her child has been
found frozen into a lake.
The good thing about weather this cold is that tears freeze
before they fall, so you can brush them away without anyone
noticing.
On the shore, paramedics were having a discussion with the
police, apparently adamant that this giant chunk of ice was not
going into their ambulance. Finally someone drove an oversized
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It’s about twenty minutes to Lake Placid, if you don’t get stuck
behind tourists. With my car heater blasting on high I had just
about stopped shivering by the time I got home. But I was still
cold, too cold to go looking for Jessamyn. I ran water in my tub,
as hot as I could stand it, and crawled in and lay there, all of me
submerged but my face, steam coming off the water, and thought
about Tobin, under the ice. My dog, Tiger, lay in the doorway
watching. She’s half German shepherd and half golden retriever,
and just about the best dog on the planet.
It seemed to take forever to warm up.
I toweled off and dressed as fast as I could, but I was moving
slowly, like in one of those dreams where you just can’t get any-
where. The walk up to town took longer than usual.
Jessamyn was working at a restaurant up on Main Street,
where she regularly had the weekend shift. Tourists come into
town determined to spend money, and they’re happy to drop it on
tips for a smiling waitress. And Jessamyn could play charm-the-
tourists as well as anyone.
This was your standard steak and seafood restaurant, with the
requisite Olympic kitsch: hanging ice skates and hockey sticks,
photos of ski jumpers and bobsledders. I kicked snow off my boots
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at the door and stamped more off in the foyer. It was the after-
noon lull before the dinner rush, and I saw Jessamyn refilling
coffee cups for a table of tourists and laughing as if they’d said
something incredibly witty. I waited until she headed back my
direction.
“Hey, Troy,” she said, surprised. “Did you want to eat?” She
knows I don’t often eat out, and if I do, it’s Desperados, where the
food is cheap and the service fast, or The Cowboy if someone’s
visiting from out of town.
I shook my head. “Can you take five minutes?” I asked.
She narrowed her eyes. She knew I wouldn’t be here if it
wasn’t important. She set down the coffeepot, told the cashier
she’d be right back, and grabbed her jacket.
Outside she crammed her gloveless hands into her pockets
and looked at me. There was no easy way to say this. I would
rather have told her at home, but word travels fast. Somewhere in
town somebody probably was already telling the story.
I took a deep breath, and spoke. “I was over in Saranac Lake
today—they started building the ice palace. They found a body in
the ice.”
Now her eyes shifted. I’d learned with her this didn’t always
mean she wasn’t telling the truth; sometimes it just meant she
was uncomfortable.
I made myself say the next words. “It was Tobin, Jessamyn.”
She seemed to stop breathing. She stared at me, eyes wide,
and swayed on her feet. I took a step toward her, but she righted
herself. Her face was chalk.
“You’re sure?” she whispered.
I nodded. She didn’t ask any questions. She just stood there
and breathed: in, out, in, out.
When Tobin had disappeared this last time, she had held out
hope for a long time that he would return as usual. But as weeks
turned into months, even she had given up. I think both of us had
assumed he’d gotten tired of playing Adirondacker. I’d pictured
him back at whatever posh home he had come from, living off
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She told her boss she was taking the evening off, and after one
look at our faces he knew not to protest. If Jessamyn was passing
up a prime winter Saturday evening slot, there was good reason.
He’d call in someone who’d be happy to take her shift and the fat
tips that came with it.
We walked down the street wordlessly, our feet crunching on
the packed snow. When we reached ZigZags, she opened the door,
and I followed her in. She nodded at the bartender; I’d seen him
around town but didn’t know his name. He served us efficiently,
refilling her glass when she gestured to it, and topped up my Diet
Coke without asking.
She didn’t cry; she just drank. She asked the bartender if he
had any cigarettes, and he handed her an open pack and didn’t say
anything about smoking not being allowed. There were no other
customers. She smoked four in fast succession, lighting one from
the butt of the other. I didn’t complain about the smoke. I didn’t
remind her how hard she’d told me it had been to quit. I just sat
there.
She spoke only once, and I had to lean in to hear her. “Damn
him,” she whispered. I didn’t know if she meant damn him for
dying, or damn him for things he’d done when he was alive. I
didn’t ask.
Eventually I went off to the bathroom, and on the way back
asked the bartender if he had any food—I figured that liquor and
shock weren’t a good combination on an empty stomach. I thought
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he might find some pretzels or nuts, but he came back with two
thick sandwiches on sturdy plates and sat them on the bar in front
of us. Maybe he’d heard about Tobin, or maybe he could just tell
when someone needed to have food set in front of them. Jessamyn
picked her sandwich up almost unseeingly and ate most of it, then
put it down and emptied her glass.
“Let’s go,” she said, and stood. She pulled some bills from her
pocket and dropped them on the bar. I caught the bartender’s eye
with a look that said If it’s not enough, let us know, and he nod-
ded. I grabbed my jacket and followed her outside.
It was snowing softly, the flakes falling on our faces and stick-
ing in our hair. Dusk was settling. We walked to the house in
silence. As Jessamyn turned to climb the stairs to her room, I saw
a tear trail down her cheek. Maybe she’d cry up there, or maybe
she’d just go to sleep. But I knew she needed to be alone.
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It was past Tiger’s dinnertime, so I filled her bowl and left her in
the kitchen while I climbed the steep stairs that led to my rooms. I
have an outer room I use as an office, a tiny bathroom, and a small
bedroom, all nicely separate from the rest of the house. I turned on
my computer and clicked on my portable radiator. This is the only
heat up here, plus whatever makes its way up through the stairwell
and vents in the floor. But at night I have a down comforter and the
warm weight of Tiger in the crook of my knees, so I do all right.
I sat at my desk. I could feel the heat from the radiator, but
I didn’t want to. I wanted to feel numb. I wanted to forget the
grinding sound the block of ice with Tobin’s body had made as it
had slid past me, the grunts of the men struggling to move it into
the truck, the look on Jessamyn’s face when I’d told her the news.
And I wanted to forget that glimpse of Tobin Winslow’s face, fro-
zen into the ice.
But I couldn’t.
I pushed my camera’s memory card into my computer, let
Photoshop start uploading the photos, and turned away as they
began flashing past. I rummaged in my dresser for some thick
wool socks, pulled them on, and went down to the kitchen to brew
some tea. Then I climbed under my covers to warm up.
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may have mistreated her, whose body had just been found frozen
in Lake Flower.
He listened without a word. “Fully dressed?” he asked when
I stopped.
I closed my eyes, and I could see the contorted figure in the
block of ice. One arm, off to the side, fingers splayed. A shiver ran
through me. “Yes. Coat. No hat. No gloves, at least on the hand
I saw.”
“He was a drinker?”
“Oh, yeah. And he smoked weed, I think. He never seemed
entirely sober.”
I’ve never seen the logic in drinking to excess—it makes peo-
ple act stupid and feel bad later. But plenty of locals drink hard
and regularly, and many vacationers seem to think it’s a require-
ment for stepping foot in town. More than once I’ve hollered out
my bedroom window at two a.m. at firemen here for a convention
and so drunk they couldn’t find their way back to their motel.
Maybe visiting horse-show people got plastered as well, but didn’t
wander the streets being loud about it. Maybe they sat around in
their trim riding jodhpurs and neat buttoned shirts and got qui-
etly, desperately, privately drunk.
Even I knew if someone had imbibed enough they might think
it a great idea to amble across a half-frozen lake. Alcohol seems to
go a long way toward convincing people they’re immortal.
“They’ll do an autopsy,” Jameson said. “Even the basics will
take a few days; tox screens take longer. Then they’ll likely know
if it’s anything besides him just falling through the ice. But
tell your roommate not to talk about this. To anyone. Not even
casually.”
“What about the police?”
Silence for a moment as he negotiated between his sense of
duty and what was best for Jessamyn. “She doesn’t want to im-
pede the investigation,” he said finally. “She should tell them
what’s relevant: when she saw him last, who his friends were,
but nothing that’s not facts—nothing they can misinterpret. Not
without a lawyer.”
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They don’t care if you don’t feel like talking and they don’t get
involved with your life, except around the edges. They never want
to make the house rules or take over running things, and they
don’t complain about the décor or much of anything.
But Jessamyn hadn’t been the typical female roommate. She
didn’t want to take over anything. She didn’t want to always be
doing things with me. She didn’t want to tell me her problems or
hear about mine, and she was tidier than most of the guys. Tobin
I’d seen a lot of, because he was often at the house, and nothing
had given me a reason to change my impression of him. Not that
I’d told Jessamyn. She hadn’t gotten where she was in life by lis-
tening to good advice. Few of us have.
As I walked I pictured Tobin, drunk or foolish or both,
crunching across the early winter ice of Lake Flower until he fell
through, or passing out or falling asleep, then sliding under as the
ice gave way. At least then, I thought, he would have been spared
the shock of plunging into the frigid water and that final awful
moment when he knew he wasn’t going to be able to save himself,
that today had been his last tomorrow.
Or he could have been ice diving. It’s crazy, but people do it.
I’d seen it during Winter Carnival—unofficial, of course. Some-
one dives through a circular hole cut into the ice, a rope tied to
one leg, and comes up through a second hole nearby, presumably
after drinking enough to decide it’s a good idea. Maybe Tobin had
missed the second hole and had no one to haul him out. Or tried it
without a rope, or the rope came loose, or his friends lost hold of
it. It would be a terrible secret to keep through the winter, waiting
for the body to be found. But because of Winter Carnival and the
vagaries of the lake, it had appeared sooner rather than later.
It didn’t yet cross my mind that someone might actually have
a reason for wanting Tobin gone.
My eyelashes were beginning to freeze. I broke into a jog,
taking choppy, short steps, all you can do in clunky boots on icy
ground. Tiger kept pace without missing a beat. I switched to
a brisk walk when I reached town, passing restaurants and gift
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shops, the Olympic Center and then the speed-skating oval with
its skaters in tights and long blades, bent low, gliding around the
track.
In the kitchen, Brent glanced up and nodded. He was working
his way through a plateful of spaghetti and a paperback copy of
Of Human Bondage, a book I’ve never been able to make my-
self finish. Brent, like most of my athlete roommates, was quiet
and dedicated—a biathlete who spent long hours skiing, lifting
weights, and dry-firing his rifle at a tiny target taped on his bed-
room wall. He’d lived in the Olympic training center a while, but
I suspected there’d been too many boisterous bobsledders and
snowboarders for him.
I wondered if I should tell him Jessamyn’s boyfriend had been
found frozen in the ice of Lake Flower. But it’s a hard thing to
work into conversation: How’s your book? Say, did you hear Tobin
Winslow was found dead today? I nodded back at him and climbed
the stairs to my room.
I pulled on the sweatpants and old pullover I sleep in, and
thought about e-mailing or calling Philippe. But I didn’t feel
like talking, and this wasn’t something you could rattle off in an
e-mail. I’d tell him about it, but not now. I grabbed my favorite
Josephine Tey novel, and forced my eyes to follow the words until
I could go to sleep. It took a while.
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